


but I don't need no cure, I'll just stay a victim if I can for sure

by ashintuku



Series: fox on the run [23]
Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies)
Genre: Gen, Mentions of Infanticide, Mild Language, mentions of abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-06
Updated: 2017-08-06
Packaged: 2018-12-11 20:09:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11721657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashintuku/pseuds/ashintuku
Summary: "How do you deal with the fact that Thanos – actual psychopath of the galaxyThanosis—”“My father?”





	but I don't need no cure, I'll just stay a victim if I can for sure

Drumming her fingers on the armrest, dark eyes stared out the observation deck without blinking; she barely breathed. 

It was quiet on the bridge, still; serene, if she bothered to think about it like that. But serenity was not a part of her life, and she stiffened as soon as she heard the door slide open with a hiss; sliding back closed with a _bang_. She refused to move from her slouched position on the captain’s chair, back pressed against the worn leather and legs spread in ownership. 

Footsteps stopped beside the chair, leather creaking as the terran shifted, and Nebula turned slowly to look up at Quill. 

He crossed his arms, uncrossed them, and then re-crossed them before looking down at her with a wince. She continued to stare at him expectantly, fingers still on the armrest; poised to move should he try anything. 

“Could you, like, blink?” 

“What do you _want_.” 

Quill sighed, long and heavy, before he twitched and moved to sit in the co-pilot’s seat. Nebula tracked him with her gaze, head turning to keep him in her sights. He sat down stiffly, leaning forward on his knees. 

“...how do you _deal_ with it?” 

Nebula cocked her head, sat up in a jerk of motion, and turned towards him. Her fingers wrapped around the edge of the seat, tight-knuckled and tense, and she wished for a moment for the staff she had lost months ago; its electric current familiar and even comforting, if she had to lower herself to needing _comfort_. 

“ _Deal_?” 

“With—” Quill grunted, rubbed his face with his hands, and pressed fingers into his eyes. Nebula imagined reaching forward and driving his face into his knees; causing him to dig his own fingers into his eyes, blinding him, before she took him out. Noted how easy it would be, right then, just the two of them on the bridge. He lacked weaponry; she _was_ weaponry. 

She blinked, instead. 

“With Thanos. How do you deal with the fact that Thanos – actual psychopath of the galaxy _Thanos_ is—”

“My father?” 

Quill flinched, and Nebula relaxed her fingers; implants and gears shifting and hissing as she slowly loosened the tension in her muscles, synthetic and organic. She planted her feet more firmly on the ground, turning to look out the observation windows again. 

She listened to Quill breath in a sharp breath, as if he needed to steady himself, but did not look at him again. She was aware of him; he was not quiet, not like her sister. Should he try to attack her, she would know long before the first swing could even start. 

“Why are you even up here?” 

“I like the view.” 

She had docked on the Guardians’ ship to resupply, gather intel, and share intel with her sister about what she had learned about Thanos. Gamora had invited her to stay for a few days; to rest. It was a waste of time, but Gamora had _asked_ , and had seemed like she truly wished for her to stay; and she knew she had to go back out, to hunt for their father, to destroy him so he would not destroy another little girl’s life—

—but she stayed, anyway, just for a night. To refuel and to have the twitchy Ravager check on her ship to make sure it was still running properly. That was all. 

But she could not stay anywhere else on the ship. It was too close, too crowded – too much like Ronan’s vessel, which had had no windows, or like her room on her father’s ship, which had been a box just big enough to sit in. So she sat in the captain’s chair and looked at the stars and ignored the jumble of thoughts in her head. 

“Why do you want to know about Thanos.” 

“I don’t want to know about Thanos – okay, no, backtrack,” Quill shook his head, roughing up his hair, and Nebula tilted her head and watched him from the corner of her eye, “I totally want to know about Thanos. That’s important. But that’s not what I’m asking you. I’m asking you how you deal with the fact that he’s your father.” 

“Why?” 

“Because I tried to ask Gamora once and she told me, firmly and not without vaguely threatening me, to never refer to him as her father again before leaving in what I can only describe as a graceful stomp. She’s really good at that. You’re both really good at it, is it an assassin thing?” 

“No.” 

“...Right.” 

Nebula stood, then, and Quill jumped as if surprised she had moved. She stepped down towards the window, going as close as she could; metal fingers pressed against the glass. She thought about the fragility of the window: how she could pull back and punch through it, as if it was candy glass, and they would suck out into the void. She would live for longer than Quill, at least for a few minutes, but they would both be dead quickly. 

She narrowed her eyes. 

“If you were asking for a sentimental story, you would have pestered Gamora until she cracked. And she would – Gamora managed to hold onto her sentimentalities, no matter what our father did to us. She is still so _soft_.” 

“There’s nothing wrong with softness.” 

“...Perhaps.” She then drummed her fingers against the window pane, gaze flickering over the constellations. They drifted by a nebula of yellows and greens and oranges. They were close to the outer edges of the galaxy, near the Dark Zone between the Milky Way and Andromeda. “Tell me why you want to know.” 

She watched him in the reflection of the glass; watched as he tensed and stared at his hands, gaze distant. She wondered what it was about him that made her sister soften like a child in his presence; open expression, hands reaching out, tongue ready to say something to try and help. 

(She thought back to their childhoods, just little girls; how Gamora would reach out and whisper to her that they would be okay. It was their first night meeting, their first night in the care of Thanos, and Gamora had _promised_ they would be okay. And then the next morning, Thanos had told them to fight; fight or be punished, fight or be hurt, and Gamora had fought because fear was stronger than kindness and they learned that quick and hard.) 

“Can’t a guy be curious?” 

“No.” 

“You are as verbose as you are warm, Nebula.” 

She looked over her shoulder, glaring at him flatly, and he held his hands up defensively; slouching back into his chair as though he could disappear into the worn, faded fabric. She slowly turned away from him again, fingers tapping against the glass impatiently. 

“...Okay, look,” Quill finally said, and she watched as his shoulders slouched and he ran his fingers through his hair. “I’m tryin’ real hard to wrap my head around the fact that my father was a megalomaniac who killed his kids because they didn’t meet his expectations. Yondu was pretty shitty a lot of the time, but he never _killed_ people unless they, y’know, deserved it? Or were assholes. He never killed _kids_.” 

“You find it strange that a man would remove his failures?” Nebula intoned, and Quill made some sort of sound that seemed like affirmation. “It is not so strange. My father would do the same. I had many sisters outside of Gamora. They were all weak – pathetic. None of them matched expectations, and Father would have Gamora and I fight them. When all they would do is lose, he would remove them. They served no purpose.” 

“Yeah, see, that’s the thing – they don’t need to serve a purpose to deserve the right to, y’know, _exist_.” 

“What does it matter? You father is dead. He can no longer remove the useless. Your need to understand is moronic.” 

Quill didn’t answer her, and Nebula stopped tapping the glass, slowly turning around to look at him. 

He was staring at his hands, which were fisted in front of him; knuckles bleached white, shaking. He gritted his teeth so tightly the luphomoid could hear the creak of his jaw; the grinding of bone. She blinked slowly, head cocked. 

“...You’re afraid.” 

Quill twitched, glancing up at her, before looking away again. He said nothing, and she stepped towards him slowly; deliberate, precise. Her footsteps echoed in the quiet of the bridge; the only other noise their breathing and the hum of engines. 

“You fear you are like him. You look into the mirror and all you see is his face. You sit in silence and all you hear are his words.” She stepped up towards him carefully, watching as he seemed to curve into himself. “You sit there and you remember the exact moment he had you _agreeing_ with him, because of your desperation for a family. For belonging. For _approval_.” 

“Shut up.” 

“You came to me because Gamora cannot _relate_ to this; she always had her memories of her true father. Her childhood kept her safe. But your childhood was spent with a man you half-hated, and you wished for your father every day you breathed. The moment he appeared before you, you reached out with both hands – greedy for that connection. Gamora cannot understand that _need_ to have that connection. She had a loving father. She reminded herself of him every time Thanos called her daughter and made her fight her sisters. It gentled her winning blows; it kept her from killing those who could not defeat her.” 

It made her reach out to a sister willing to kill her where she stood, all because she wanted to be a better person. It made Nebula love and hate her. 

“But you know I do not have those same memories. That I can _relate_.” 

“Can you?” 

Nebula scoffed, looking away from him; rolling her shoulders and prowling around the co-pilot’s chair with the ease of a stalking thing. Her fingers twitched, and she watched him. 

“You asked me how I dealt with Thanos being my father. You ask as if I can push it aside; forget the influence he had on me. But I was under his thumb for years. I tried, and I _tried_ to be the daughter he desired. He ripped me apart piece by piece until there was barely anything left of the little girl I had been, and still I could not please him. Still he turned away from me, his disappointment, and his lesser daughter.” She stopped, stepping back and sitting back into the captain’s chair; ramrod straight and gaze intent. 

“Thanos _is_ my father – the only one I have ever known. I hate him, and I will kill him, even if it kills me; but he _is_ my father, and I am the creature he has made me to be. I look into the mirror and I see what I have become: the tool of the man I craved the attention of. I will always be that.” 

“...I don’t want to be that,” Quill said softly, hunching further into himself. “I don’t _want to be that_. But I just remember how he had acted just the way I’d always wanted my dad to act, and he’d been _everything_ I’d _wanted_. And then when I was at my most vulnerable with him, he reached out and he did something to make me more like him. I saw eternity – his vision – and _god_ I wanted that, too. I wanted everything he wanted. I wanted to be a good son.” 

He scrubbed at his face, and Nebula watched impassively. 

“And my mom – my mom always told me I reminded her _so much_ of my dad. And I don’t know if that was just the persona Ego put on when he was seducing my mom or if somehow I _did_ become like him; full of myself, full of ambition, a user. Do I manipulate people like he did? Is that why I can talk my way out of most situations? Is it because of something from _him_?” 

“My skills come from Thanos. I can kill because of him; I can fight because of him. Every part of me has his influence. I can never escape that. _You_ can never escape that. Some part of you will _always_ be like him. You want to know how I deal with the fact that Thanos is my father.” 

“Flarking fuck, _yes_ goddamn it.” 

“ _I accept it_.” 

Quill turned to look at her, eyes narrowed. 

“...what.” 

“It is a fact I cannot change. I am a murderer. I am more machinery than organic creature. I am a daughter of Thanos. Why deny any of it? What is the purpose of it? There is _none_. I will always be what I am.” She turned to him, sharp and mechanical, and he watched her; breathing heavily. “But I will prove I am _more than that_. I am a murderer and I will destroy the one who trained me. I am a machine and I will _rip apart_ the one who destroyed me. I am a daughter of Thanos – and I will dig his grave.” 

Quill swallowed. Nebula watched. 

“...I am an infanticide-committing megalomaniac’s son,” he said softly, fingers slowly uncurling, “and I beat him. I beat him – I watched him turn to dust in my arms. He made me, influenced me, made me blind to everything I had because I wanted _him_ so much, and I’m the one still standing.” He rubbed his mouth. Nebula narrowed her eyes, turning away from him. “He tried to use me to destroy the galaxy and I wouldn’t let him. I’m probably a good liar and con-artist because of him, but he doesn’t get to take credit for the man I am. He’s my father but he’s not my daddy.” 

Silence fell over them after that, the both of them staring out the observation windows. Nebula then pressed back into the seat, and Quill slowly stood up. 

“...Whatever,” she muttered, and Quill snorted a laugh. 

“God, you’re a terrible conversationalist.” 

“And you’re a waste of my time.” 

Still snickering, he moved away from the chairs, heading back to the door. He only stopped for a moment; Nebula didn’t bother turning to acknowledge him. 

“...Thanks, Nebula.” 

She grunted, closing her eyes and slouching further into the chair. The door hissed opened and clanged closed without another word, and once again she was left to herself. 

“Nuisance.”


End file.
